


Victory

by juliusschmidt



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Death, Heavily Implied Major Character Death, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 03:32:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2677454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliusschmidt/pseuds/juliusschmidt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By the time Louis finds Harry, it’s too late for both of them.</p><p>[Hunger Games AU in which Louis is the most recent victor and he's to mentor Harry, the tribute from District Nine.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victory

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: NO HAPPY ENDING AHEAD
> 
> You should back button and search the ‘fluff’ tag instead, probably.

Four hours into the journey and Louis has already lost one of his tributes. That should not be possible. Because they are on a train. 

Louis’ checked Harry’s sleeping car and his sitting car, as well as their shared dining car. He’s even checked his own sleeping car, remembering the boy’s wandering eyes and cheeky winks. 

Louis believes his mother: the forces of the universe conspire to pay people back for their crimes. 

Last year, Louis’d given his own mentor a hernia, _literally,_ by disappearing as frequently as possible. In fact, Paul’s emergency trip to the hospital three days before the Games was only the first event on a long list that the people of Panam now hold against Louis. 

Louis pushes open the door of the next car to find Kendall sitting at her vanity, blinking heavily painted eyes at her reflection in the glittering mirrors surrounding her. She frowns at Louis and pointedly does not greet him. 

Louis thinks she should reconsider her rudeness. He is one of her mentors, after all, and, at least partially, in control of her fate. He doesn’t greet her either. “Have you seen Harry?” 

She shrugs her shoulders with surprising grace. He’d assumed that, like most girls in District Nine, she’d spent her life working the fields. However, she looks perfectly at ease in the gaudy get-up of the capital. 

Louis sighs and rubs his temples. A headache is developing behind them and, not for the first time, he regrets allowing Caroline to bully him into taking on this particular mentoring duty. 

“We’re not going to be like you and Hannah,” Kendall says, turning back to the mirror to watch herself run a hand through the ends of her hair. “Seeing as that didn’t really work out so well for _her_.” 

“Smart,” Louis agrees. He would never advise anyone to win the games as he had. If he’s being honest, he probably wouldn’t advise anyone to _win_ the games at all. 

“I’m going to keep looking for Harry,” he tells her. 

“Whatever,” she replies. “I don’t care.” 

Closing the door behind himself, he hears her murmur, “I wish _Caroline_ had picked us up, instead.”

On that point, they do not disagree. 

Louis leaves the kitchen car for last. He can’t see why Harry would have any need to spend more than a moment in it. But, of course, that is where he finds Harry in the end. 

Harry's ass is in the air, small and perky and begging for a slap. Louis recognizes it right away.  

Louis shouldn't know Harry by his ass, not yet. Maybe if they'd gone to school together or if their parents had been friends Louis would have had an excuse for his familiarity. But District Nine was relatively populous and spread out across a great expanse of land. Louis' first encounter with Harry Styles had been five hours ago at the reaping, when his name had been drawn.

Harry's brave and charming, beautiful, too, having flashed his dimples on television screens across Panam, even as he walked to the train platform after kissing his mother and sister for what will probably be the last time.

He's too young and too happy to deserve this, Louis thinks, as Harry’s cackling laugh rings through the tight, tiny car. He's standing with a tray of pastries in his mittened hands. They smell sweet and hot, like Louis' mum's kitchen at Christmas.

Louis clears his throat and Harry whips around to look at him.

"Louis," he says, sounding delighted. It's a good act: no one's pleased to see Louis these days. "When these cool, you should taste one! They're the same as we had at supper, but I made them."

Louis feels the corners of his mouth turn up into a small smile. Harry sets down the pan, effusively thanking the kitchen hands all of whom look a little dazed. And maybe, also, a little amused. 

No one is going to enjoy watching this kid die.

A woman with neon yellow ringlets places two steaming pastries on a glass dish. She hands the dish to Harry with a wink and a nod and then pushes him toward the exit. 

Harry waves goodbye and lets a few more ‘thank you’s spill from his mouth before allowing Louis to lead him into the dining car. 

Harry immediately sets the pastries on the table and situates himself in one of the chairs. It’s a large table, meant to seat eight or ten. Its spaciousness felt awkward with the four of them-him and Harry and Kendall, as well as their escort- at supper, almost reinforcing the deep and heavy pauses in conversation. Louis is not eager to relive the experience. 

Still, when Harry pats the seat beside him, sending Louis a pleading look, his bottom lip out and his eyes wide and sparkling with expectation, Louis allows himself to be drawn in. 

The pastry is hot and flaky, sticking to his fingers and melting in his mouth. He licks the sugar from his lips and turns to look at Harry who is biting the side of his finger as he watches Louis expectantly. 

“Good, yeah?” Harry asks. 

Louis nods and, as he lifts the pastry to his mouth for another bite, he feels Harry relax beside him. It is really, _really_ good. 

“I’ve been wanting to learn to make something like that for ages. Not easy to get your hands on a whole cup of processed sugar, though.” 

Harry’s eyes haven’t left Louis’ face and it’s starting to make him a little uncomfortable. He’s used to being watched. He’s spent the last year of his life under immense scrutiny, his every move, every expression, and every word carefully evaluated by the entire nation. 

Harry’s gaze feels different, though, warmer than any he’s experienced in a long time, even at home. Harry’s expression carries affection and a tinge of playfulness. He thinks his mum, and Lottie and his close friends used to look at him with similar smiles, but that was before he’d won his games, before they’d learned the cruelty he was capable of committing. 

Louis wishes he could hold onto Harry’s look, wishes he deserved it. 

“Seems a bit useless to learn now,” Louis hears himself say, as he brushes off his fingers. 

Harry’s lips turn upside down, mimicking unhappiness. He does not actually look unhappy; his eyes are dancing and he still looks pleased. He’s clearly a terrible actor and Louis experiences a rush of relief at the realization that Harry will _not_ be playing the Games in the same manner Louis had.

“You’ll probably never be able to make them again,” Louis explains. It’s a dark thought and saying it aloud probably makes him a terrible mentor. Caroline and Paul had never been anything but encouraging with him. 

Harry raises a brow and nods, “That’s why I had thought I’d better do it now.” He pauses and then begins again, tone dry and deep as ever, “Unless, this year’s games involve some sort of bake off. That would increase my odds.” 

Louis chuckles and shakes his head. 

The thing is, the games are not a joke. Paul must have said that to him a hundred times as they’d prepared. And it’s true. Louis’d known it then and he knows it now. He feels the painful seriousness of what happens in that arena down to the very marrow of his bones. 

Still, he’s not sure how anyone can survive the games themselves or the emotional aftermath without an appreciation for irony and an occasional bout of laughter, so he meets Harry’s eyes and lets himself enjoy the moment. 

-

Harry's missing. Again. He's not practicing with the bow, nor is he tying knots. Louis’d been relatively certain he’d find him memorizing plant uses, but he’s not there either.

Loius’ covered most of the training facility searching for his delinquent mentee and he tries to calm his quickening pulse. Harry's proven himself terrible at every single skill he's tried, worse even than Louis had been and that's saying a lot. He _needs_ to take advantage of his time to actually _train._

His life depends on it. Sort of.  

Harry’s chances of winning are slim to none, but Louis doesn’t want him to look a fool, doesn’t want him to die straight away. 

It’s neither careful nor clever, but Louis _likes_ Harry and has been developing a sort of friendship with him. He doesn’t want to seem him humiliated. 

If things were different, Louis might want to pursue something more, to let Harry know that he sees his little smirks and his longing glances, but things are the way they are. Louis is scum on the bottom of the Capital’s shoe and Harry is marching, slowly but surely, out to the firing squad. 

Louis opens the door to the last practice room and lets out a breath. Harry is inside- thank _fuck_ \- and he's throwing a spear. His technique is nothing short of tragic, but at least he's trying.

He’s about to tease him, but he stops when he sees that Harry is not alone. He's with Liam, a beefy career from District Two with an overly serious demeanor.

Liam retrieves the spear that Harry’s just lobbed and walks it back to him. He adjusts Harry’s grip and demonstrates the proper motion in the air before returning to lean against the wall and watch. 

He’s _helping_ Harry, Louis realizes. Careers do _not_ help other tributes. They’re here to win- and they usually do. 

Harry throws the spear a second time. It’s not _quite_ as awful as his last attempt and he turns to grin at Liam, nodding and waggling his eyebrows enthusiastically. 

Liam laughs and shakes his head. “Still terrible, Harry.” 

Harry begins to shrug, but freezes with his shoulders up his cheeks, finally catching sight of Louis standing by the door. “Hello.”

Louis smiles at Harry and Harry bites back a smile in return.  

“Tomlinson.” Liam is glowering at him, arms crossed. 

Louis sighs and nods curtly. “Good of you to give Harry a few pointers. What are they gonna cost him?” 

Liam tilts his head and holds Louis’ gaze. “Believe it or not, some people aren’t greedy and backstabbing dicks looking to take advantage.” 

Louis should be used to this kind of vitriol by now, but it still stings. He replies the same way he always does, with the truth. “Everything changes in that arena.” 

Liam’s eyes narrow and he begins to move to the door. “The last forty-six victors managed survive without betraying and murdering everyone who trusted them.”

Louis feels his eyes turn glassy. He wants to disappear, but Liam’s not done. “Hannah _loved_ you. So did Oli. And Zayn.”  

“Fuck off,” Louis hisses.  

Liam pushes the door open. Over his shoulder, he calls, “Bye, Harry. See you later. We’ll do knives tomorrow.” 

The door swings closed with bang and suddenly it feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. Louis can’t look at Harry. So far, they’ve avoided talking about Louis’ games, about how badly he’d fucked up. 

The silence is becoming unbearable. He reaches down to fuss with the hem of his shirt. “I don’t recommend alliances.” 

“Lou,” Harry says and then he’s close, in Louis’ space, wrapping his arms around him. Louis stiffens. He’s not sure what Harry’s doing or why he’s doing it. 

“Lou,” Harry says again, and Louis caves, returning the embrace, burying his face in Harry’s neck and breathing deeply. Harry smells like sweat and his hold is surprisingly firm.

The last person who’d held Louis this tightly had been his mother. He remembers the softness of her body against his, contorting with sobs. “I am glad you’re alive,” she’d wept before pulling back to say, “But I can’t believe that _my_ son would behave that way.”  

Her words were filled with a bitterness he’d never heard directed at himself before. In those games, she’d lost her dignity _and_ her son and she’d made sure he understood that. 

Harry’s palm rubs wide circles across Louis’ back. “You’re okay,” he says. “You did what you had to.” 

Louis’ heart contracts and he chokes out a whimper and blinks back his tears. He’s supposed to be taking care of Harry, not the other way around. With final squeeze, he steps away. 

Harry’s eyes are wet, too. “People die in the Games. There’s only one victor. It’s not your fault.” 

Louis nods, but thinks that Harry can’t possibly realize the meaning of his words. Not yet, not truly. Louis sighs, wipes at his eyes, and reaches for the door. He can hear people in the hallway making their way to lunch. 

Harry presses on, though. “I don’t see how tricking people into dying or into killing each other is any worse than slitting people’s throat and strangling them. You don’t deserve all this cruelty.”  

“It _is_ different, Harry,” Louis tells him and he believes it. He can’t imagine he would carry the same guilt if he’d had the courage to look into Oli’s eyes as he died. 

Then again, if he’d had to watch Oli squirm and thrash, he probably wouldn’t have been able to finish him off. 

Harry pulls Louis into another hug, just as tight as the first. In Louis’ ear, he whispers, “You’re a good person. I know you are.” 

Louis wishes he could believe him. 

~

The area backstage is teaming with tributes and victors, escorts and stylists, every single person fashioned to perfection. Louis’ stylist has only just finished securing his quiff. The whole process had taken longer than he’d expected and, in the meantime, Harry’s wandered away from his dressing room. 

Kendall is there, though, twirling in front of a full-length mirror as the tributes’ stylist and her assistants look on. Her outfit is a little racy for Louis’ taste, the slit at the side of her dress climbing nearly all the way to her hip, but he supposes it’ll win her the attention of potential (lecherous) sponsors. 

“Have you seen Harry?” He asks the room at large. 

Kendall rolls her eyes. “Caroline took him somewhere to prep him for the interview, I think.” 

Louis feels a little growl of anger build at the back of his throat, but manages to suppress it. “He’s already been prepped.” 

Kendall smirks. “Guess she didn’t trust you. Can’t imagine why.” 

Louis tries to hold back from scathing her with a nasty reply. She’s his mentee; he’s supposed to be encouraging her, helping her win. As he walks out the door he says, “Break a leg.” 

Caroline hasn’t taken Harry far. Louis finds them in the wardrobe closet three rooms down. 

Harry’s leaning against a clothing rack, his black tux simple, but gleaming. He would look rakish, if not for his dimples, which are out, full force, as he grins at Caroline, who is standing close. Far too close. 

She’s wearing her hair down, her soft golden curls hitting the middle of her bare back. It’s not fashionable to wear one’s hair down these days, but Louis thinks she looks radiant, as usual. Harry’s eyes are focused intently on her face and Louis thinks he must appreciate her beauty, as well. 

Louis tries to tamp down his frustration. Caroline had been good to him and Hannah. She’d grown especially close to Hannah. Of course she’d been bitter with Louis after he’d won; it was only natural. He deserved it. 

Still, Louis can’t help but hate the way Harry’s watching her now, happily, and, maybe, a little hungrily. 

Louis clears his throat and Harry looks over Caroline’s shoulder to smile at him. “Hello, Louis.”

Louis stomach flutters at Harry’s bright tone. “Hello, Harry. Caroline.” 

Caroline does not turn around to reply, “Louis.” 

“It’s almost time for Harry to go on.” It’s not, though. Harry has at least another half an hour before it’ll be his turn to sit down for his interview with Caesar Flickerman. 

Harry’s brow furrows and he runs a hand through his hair, upsetting the carefully sculpted mass of curls floating around his head. 

Caroline grabs his wrist, stilling him, and Louis’ tempted by the urge to slap her hand away. 

“Babe,” she says. “Remember what we talked about.” She grabs his chin between her thumb and forefinger. “You’re handsome, Haz, a real charmer. People will like you.” 

“It’s true,” Louis cuts in because it is true. And also because he wants pull Harry’s gaze away from Caroline and back to him. 

It works. Harry catches his eyes, now beaming. 

And Harry’s big smile does what Louis’ presence hadn’t; it turns Caroline around. “I don’t know what your end game here is, Tomlinson, but I’m watching you. Don’t fuck it up for Harry.” 

She turns back and presses a kiss to each of Harry’s cheeks. She murmurs something to him, words too soft for Louis to make out.

Once she’s out of the room, Harry shakes his head as if to clear it. He sneezes. Walking toward Louis, he says, “Strong perfume. I like it.” 

Louis raises an eyebrow. “She’s beautiful, yeah?” 

Harry nods and then twirls dramatically, punctuating the gesture by throwing his arms wide, palms up, as if to say, _me, too?_

“Nice,” Louis tells him. “Highlights your bum.” 

Harry laughs. “I haven’t got a bum.” 

Louis steps closer and, then, in an unusual rush of playfulness, reaches round to pinch Harry’s ass. 

Harry squeaks and scoots back from him. “Hey,” he says, dragging the word out.  

They watch each other for a long moment. Harry bites his lip and the fluttering in the pit Louis’ stomach returns. 

“Do you think-” Harry begins at the same time as Louis says, “What’s happening with your fringe, here?” 

Harry stills and lets Louis tidy up the front of his hair. It’s softer than Louis’ own tonight, not quite so stiff with gel, but it doesn’t quite settle right, even with Louis’ careful touch. He doesn’t want Harry to feel flustered, though, so he says, “Much better.” 

Harry’s eyes are on his lips. Louis knows what’s happening between them. He’s not stupid. He’s felt the pull of attraction between them since their eyes met on the platform at the Reaping. He’d thought he’d be able to resist, though. 

Now, he’s not so sure. 

Harry’s the one to do it, of course, the one with the courage to lean forward and press their mouths together. His touch is light and Louis has to stop himself from chasing after it. 

“Thank you, Lou,” Harry says, voice catching as he pulls back, eyes still trained on Louis’ lips. 

“I haven’t-” Louis says, and Harry kisses him again, harder this time, but just as quick. 

They watch each other for a long moment afterward. Louis’ contemplates leaning forward a third time. It’s tempting. Harry’s pupils are blown, leaving only a small ring of green. He looks like wants to kiss Louis again, too, like perhaps he feels a matching ache of longing build behind his own ribs. 

Louis says, “We shouldn’t do this.”

Harry frowns and Louis thinks he’s going to argue. 

He doesn’t, though. He asks, “Do you want to know what wildcard I have up my sleeve for the interview?” 

Louis fights a smile. He does want to know. 

Harry waggles his eyebrows. “I’m gonna offer to blow him. On live TV. In front of all of Panam.” 

“You are not.” Louis hopes the flare of irritation he feels doesn’t show on his face. But, well, Harry wouldn’t _dare_. It would be _suicide_. 

“I am.” 

“You _can’t_ , you slag,” Louis says, reaching up to twist one of Harry’s nipples. 

Harry winces and takes a few steps backward, before smirking again. “I guess you’ll have to watch and see.” 

~

Louis decides to wait up for Harry and Kendall. They’ve both asked permission to attend the party in the basement of the tributes’ quarters. 

The careers and a few of the other real contenders will be tucked in already, trying to store up an extra few hours of rest, hoping it’ll better their chances, but most of the kids will opt to spend their last night alive dancing and drinking and maybe even getting lucky. 

He remembers from last year that many of victors attend as well, especially the younger ones. Louis can’t imagine why. He doesn’t have any desire to relive that moment of his own life, the dizzying terror he hadn’t been able to come close to drowning in tequila and sex. 

It’s not as though anyone wants him there, either. 

Well, that’s not completely true: Harry had begged him to tag along. But he turned the offer down. Louis knows that he’s likely to have beer poured down his shirt or to be slammed up against the bar and punched in the mouth. People don’t treat him well, especially once they’ve had a few drinks. 

Louis must doze off because the clang of the entry door startles him. Kendall falls into the sitting room, kicking off her shoes. 

She frowns at Louis. “Hey,” she says and purses her lips. 

“Where’s Harry?” He asks. 

She laughs sloppily, her shoulders shaking with it. “You’re so predictable. You really like him, huh? Not just _fake_ like him?” 

Louis tenses at the question, but she sounds genuine, puzzled and amused, certainly, but not mean. 

“He’s hard not to like.” Louis meets her eyes. Even in the dim lamplight, he can see that they’re glazed over and he hopes she hasn’t taken anything that’ll still be in her system tomorrow morning. 

“You should go rescue him, then.” She turns down the hallway to her room still laughing.

Louis looks at the door and then at the clock on the wall. It’s late. Dawn’s only a few hours away and the party should be coming to a close. He wonders if Harry has had so much to drink that he needs rescuing. Kendall had not looked good and that, he thinks, bodes poorly. 

That thought and its accompanying shiver of fear motivates Louis to slip on a pair of shoes and head downstairs. 

The room where the party’s been held is dark and mostly empty. The music is still playing, each thump of the base rattling the glass of wine sat precariously on the edge of the DJ booth. Three or four couples are dancing nearby, their movements smooth and suggestive. 

Harry’s among them, though his hips thrusts look more sleepy than sexual. He turns and Louis sees whom he’s with: Taylor Swift. 

She’s draped over him, face in his neck, hands on his ass. Louis’ fists clench. 

Taylor had won the Games just like Louis, with deception and subterfuge. Initially, she’d been his inspiration. 

He remembers being completely compelled by her demeanor during her games. Like everyone else, he’d thought her sweet and helpless. But when he watched her walk out of the arena alive, he’d realized she was anything but. Seemingly without regret, she’dsucceeded in convincing several other tributes to sacrifice themselves on her behalf. 

However, the difference between her victory and Louis’ own has been stark. The public had bought her act and to this day most people believe that she is who she’d pretended to be all along, innocent, good-natured, and lucky, if a little pathetic.  

She’s not, though, and Louis hates her intensely. 

If Harry’d been dancing with anyone else, Louis might have been able to walk away and let him enjoy this last little sexcapaid. 

As it is, Louis has no sooner spotted Taylor than he’s striding toward the pair of them and tapping Harry hard on the shoulder. 

Harry frowns at him, blinking in confusion, and Louis tries not to find the little line between his brows endearing. After a slow second or two, Harry seems to realize what’s happening and who Louis is and he smiles, lazy and happy. “Louis,” he slurs. “You came.” 

“Louis,” Taylor echoes. “I was just telling Harry how I should have been mentoring him all along. I think we could have similar strategies, you know?” 

Louis huffs out a breath. She looks about three times as sober as Harry. “Don’t you have your own mentees from District Four?” 

She shrugs. Her shoulders are bare and one of Harry’s big hands lays open atop the back of them. “None of them are as charming as Harry. I’ve told them to keep an eye on him; I know he’s trouble, just like you.” 

Louis glowers at her. “Fuck off, Swift.” 

Harry looks between them and smirks. “Fuck _me_?” 

Louis closes his eyes and sends a mental ‘thank you’ to Kendall for suggesting he retrieve Harry from the party. The boy is drunk enough that if he wants to be clear-headed for tomorrow’s games, they’ll need to start with the sobering routine right away. 

To Taylor, he says, “Thank you for taking such good care of him, but I’ll take over from here.” 

She pats Harry’s cheek and he licks his lips suggestively in her direction. Louis stomach turns. “Be gentle, Tomlinson, he’s only a kid,” she says. 

Back in their rooms, Louis forces Harry to drink three glasses of water and a shot of sobering syrup. 

Harry’s very agreeable about it, though he keeps pestering Louis about kisses and blowjobs and fingers in his ass. Louis tries not to be affected by the sexual scenarios he insists on describing in explicit detail, but it’s no use. 

By the time he’s sobered up, Louis is wholly and unhelpfully aroused. Harry knows it, too. 

“I don’t think I’m drunk anymore,” Harry whispers. “We can fuck now.” 

Louis looks at lights of capital glittering outside the big glass windows enclosing their suite. The clock tower reads four and Louis thinks he’d better get Harry to bed, so he can sleep his last couple hours. District Nine’s escort is set to arrive at seven to begin the final preparations for the big day.  

“Did you hear me?” Harry tries again and Louis looks at him. “I’m not drunk and I still want you to fuck me.” 

Louis’ dick twitches. He’s ashamed (and a little surprised) that he can still feel desire so acutely after everything that’d happened between him and Hannah. 

Harry licks his lips expectantly and Louis imagines them wrapped around his cock. He feels despicable. 

“No,” he says. “That’s just the adrenaline talking. You _think_ you want to fuck because you’re facing death.” 

“Louis,” Harry says. He looks very, _very_ serious, more serious than Louis’ ever seen him. “This is probably the last night of my life. Is it really that hard to believe that I might want to spend it having sex with you?” 

The sentiment stings a little. Louis’ been happily living in a fantasy world where Harry was one of the few people who didn’t think Louis was the worst person in Panam. When Harry frames his wish to sleep with Louis this way, Louis can see the appeal whether he genuinely likes Louis or not. 

“Alright,” Louis hears himself say. He shouldn’t. The last sex of Harry’s life shouldn’t be with coward like Louis. Louis doesn’t deserve him and Louis knows he’s setting himself up to have his own heart broken. _Again_. 

“Good. Let’s do it, then.” Harry grins and Louis can’t help but grin back. 

Louis expects Harry to kiss him again, but he doesn’t. He stands, instead, and holds out a hand to pull Louis up. 

Louis allows Harry to link their fingers together and guide Louis into his bedroom. There, with dawn greying the sky behind him, Harry finally seals their lips together. 

They kiss for a long time. All the while, Harry’s hands roam Louis’ body, as if memorizing every dip and curve and hollow. 

Louis’ fingers are tangled in Harry’s hair. He’s spent a month imagining what Harry’s curls would feel like and he’s not about to give up the chance to touch them now. 

When he finally pulls away, Harry’s lips are swollen and his eyes are wet. He’s thinking about tomorrow. Louis can see it in the little lines appearing on his forehead, and he wants to make them disappear. 

“About thirty minutes ago, you told me you give the best blowjobs in Panam,” Louis says, tugging a little on Harry’s curls. “This is something I have to see.” 

Harry blows out a breath and it hits Louis’ cheek. His hands move quickly to Louis’ flies. “Absolutely. My blowjobs are better than my pastries.” 

Harry still sounds off, but at least he’s no longer frowning. “Had a lot of practice?” 

Harry drops to his knees. A smile plays at the corners of his mouth, but he holds it back as he replies, “I don’t need practice. I’m a natural. Born to suck cock.” 

He jerks Louis’ trousers down with one powerful pull and leans forward to nose at Louis’ cock through his boxers. 

Louis places his hands on Harry’s shoulders and squeezes. “Wait.” 

Harry sits back on his haunches and looks up at him. His eyes are glassy again and Louis hopes it’s with desire and not despair. He presses on, watching Harry carefully, “Have you done this before?” 

Harry doesn’t look away. He shakes his head. No. 

Louis sighs and nods. “Get up. Let’s start over.” 

Harry obeys, but he doesn’t look happy about it. “Don’t let me die without ever having tasted cock.” 

Louis laughs. He imagines that Harry’s going to miss out on so many things: his eighteenth birthday, having his own children and grandchildren, baking the chocolate filled version of that elaborate pastry. 

This is one thing he and Harry have the power to make certain Harry experiences. That thought steadies Louis a bit. 

“Keep calm, Harry. I’m not going to turn you down. I just thought maybe you’d like to, I don’t know, make a list or something, of what you want to do.”

Harry shrugs. “I want to have sex, Louis. The logistics don’t matter. I just don’t want to die without having had your dick up my ass.” 

“Now that’s another specific-” 

Harry presses his lips to Louis’, slipping his hands inside Louis’ boxers and squeezing his ass. “Just make love to me, Lou, that’s all I want.” 

Louis nods. He can do that. 

There’s a push and pull between them, a tension that Louis’ never experienced before. Harry’s hungry for him, swallowing him down too quickly and choking out a cough, while his fingertips move with an uncharacteristic aggressiveness over the skin of Louis’ thighs and hips and ass. 

Louis tries to remain levelheaded, to keep their pace even and easy. He rubs a slow, calming message into the nape of Harry’s neck. _It’s okay; you’re okay._ It works for a moment, but causes Harry to keen around him. Then, Louis is the one filled with impatience, feeling the urgency as pressure builds in his balls. 

He doesn’t come that way, though, with Harry lying below him, face between his thighs. He wants Harry to experience as much as possible, to _feel_ as much as possible, and he knows he doesn’t have the energy to sustain multiple orgasms. 

He takes his time with Harry’s preparation, moving as slowly, as carefully, as Harry allows him. First, he guides Harry’s cock into his mouth and sucks until Harry’s coming with a groan down this throat. Then, he rolls Harry over and licks a hard line down his crack around and over his hole, and finally, slips one, two, three spit-slick fingers inside him.

Harry’s responsive, each hitch of breath, each rough gasp, letting Louis know exactly how he feels. 

When at last Louis settles inside him, pressing in from behind until his cock is fully sheathed, Harry rasps out a soft, “Yeah.” 

His broad back stretches out in front of Louis, glistening with sweat and Louis wants to cover every inch of it with his mouth. 

He doesn’t, though, because with five smooth thrusts he’s spent himself and he only has the strength to lay a single line of kisses across the top of Harry’s shoulders as he reaches around to pull Harry quickly into his second climax. 

Afterwards, they don’t clean up and they don’t talk. Louis’ doesn’t think either of them falls asleep, though, not right away. Louis can’t. Instead, he rests his head against Harry’s back and counts each lift of Harry’s chest beneath his palm and thinks that, for now, they’re both alive. 

~

Louis knows it’s just him and Harry left in the game. He knows that one of them is going to win and he knows that it should be Harry. Harry hasn’t betrayed his friends, or his would-be girlfriend. Harry hasn’t tricked two people who _trusted_ him into killing each other. 

All Harry’s done is love people, love practically everyone, _love Louis_. Louis makes up his mind. Even though he’d promised his mum he’d make it out alive, he’s going to surrender, to let Harry win. He will swim out into the sea on the east side of the arena where the sharks lie in wait. 

First, though, he wants to say ‘goodbye’ to Harry, to thank him. 

He calls out, “Harry?” 

Harry’s nearby, but he doesn’t answer and so Louis calls again and again. He’s trying to be as loud as he can, but he feels like he’s already drowning, like his lungs are filling up with water.

“Louis?” 

There he is. There’s Harry, shaking him and saying, “Louis, wake up. You’re having a nightmare. Wake up.” 

Louis opens his eyes to see Harry leaning over him and brushing a strand of hair off Louis’ forehead. “Are you alright?” 

Louis looks around and lets out a breath as he realizes that they’re in Harry’s bedroom, not the arena. He’s not going to die.

But Harry is. He swallows and wishes, desperately, that he had volunteered to take Harry’s place.  

“Hey,” Harry says. “I asked if you were alright.” 

Louis nods and tugs Harry back down to lie beside him. “Dreamt about the games, about you.” 

Harry rolls onto his side and wraps himself around Louis, burying his face in Louis’ hair and breathing deeply. 

“I wish I had token from you,” Harry murmurs, lips moving against the top of Louis’ head. 

Louis reaches out to touch the silver band on Harry’s middle finger. “I thought you were going to wear your father’s ring.” 

Harry nods. “I am, but I wish I could take two. One from you, as well.” 

“You don’t want to remember me, not really,” Louis replies. “I’m just- this was all because I’m convenient. I know it was and that’s okay.” 

Harry shakes his head and Louis thinks he can see tears in Harry’s eyes. “How can you think that? I don’t want you to think that. I watched you, Louis, last year. I was rooting for you the whole time. I saw you say goodbye to your mum and your sisters. I saw you promise to win it for them and I wanted you to do it. It was horrible, yeah? Some of the things you had to do made me ache. But you didn’t do them for the money or the glory; you did it for your family, for love.” 

As Harry talks, Louis closes his eyes against a wave pain deep in his chest. His throat constricts and he feels a tear streak down his cheek. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs. Because even if no one else could see it, even if his own mother wouldn’t believe it, Harry’s right. 

Harry pulls him close again and rubs gentle circles across his back. After a moment, Louis’ eyes blink open and he takes in the creamy expanse of Harry’s neck. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll leave you with something. A mark.” 

Louis sinks his teeth in. Harry’s skin tastes salty, like sweat and sex. Harry moans, arching his hips so that his half-hard cock presses into Louis’ thigh. Louis wishes they had more time to explore, to _play_ , but the sun is peeking up over the horizon and their escort will arrive any minute. 

He lets up to inspect his work, running a finger over the reddening flesh. “That should do it. Won’t last long, though.” 

Louis watches Harry’s throat contract as he swallows. “Neither will I.” 

“Harry,” Louis pleads. It’s true, but he doesn’t want to think of it now. 

“And, if I do,” Harry continues, voice weaker than Louis’ ever heard it. “If I do survive, you can give me another.” 

Louis nods. 

“I want you to remember me, too,” Harry tells him.

“How could I forget you?” He means it. He will never forget Harry. Never.

“I want you to wear a token for me.” Harry insists, sitting up. “I have another ring at home. You could ask my mum to send it to you. Well, actually, on second thought, probably not. She doesn’t like you very well, not after what happened with Zayn. She liked Zayn. I guess I wasn’t allowed to bring-” 

Louis cuts him off. “I don’t wear much jewelry. I could get a tattoo.” 

“I like tattoos,” Harry says slowly, drawing out each word thoughtfully. “What would you get?”

“I dunno,” Louis replies. He doesn’t like the idea of Harry leaving. He doesn’t like the idea that all he’ll have left of Harry is a blot of ink penned into his skin. “I don’t want you to go.” 

“I know,” Harry murmurs, running his hand over Louis’ chest. “It is what it is.” 

They’re quiet for a minute. 

“Do you promise you’ll get a tattoo for me?” Harry’s voice is small again. 

Louis hates this. He pushes himself up onto his elbow so that their noses are almost touching. “I promise.” 

He touches his lips to the corner of Harry’s mouth. “I promise,” he says again. 

He doesn’t have a chance to say more, to ask what image Harry might like him to bear or to make any further vows, because their escort arrives calling them to breakfast. 

Harry doesn’t finish his banana and Louis barely touches his bowl of cereal. Kendall doesn’t even make it to the dining car. 

Louis paces as he waits for Kendall and Harry to finish their final dressing. When they appear in the sitting room, they’re bundled up in fur-lined coats and hats and mittens. The arena will be cold, then, and Louis shivers in anticipation even though he’s not going with them. 

Their walk to the staging area is quiet. Louis wonders how Harry is feeling, if he’s given up already or if he’s steeling himself to fight, but he can’t bring himself to look.

He makes certain that he’s the last to say goodbye to Harry and tries not to think about the cameras that are surely focused on them now, zoomed-in close to catch their expressions.  

Harry reaches out to grip Louis’ bicep, thumb squeezing deep enough to bruise. He presses their foreheads together. 

“Thank you,” Louis whispers. A buzzer sounds and Louis steps away. 

Harry shakes his head. 

“No, Lou, wait,” Harry says as the doors close between them and he disappears from Louis’ sight. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> That’s it. That’s the end. I will not write a sequel, so please don’t ask. 
> 
> However, you are welcome to come cry with me on [tumblr](http://juliusschmidt.tumblr.com).


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